Cast Your Soul To The Sea
by Sapphire Warrioress
Summary: What were the final thoughts of The Lone Star’s Captain as he set off on what was to be his final voyage? Read on to find out. Based on the BBC’s adaptation of The Five Orange Pips.


_Authoress's note: This short story is based on the final scene of the BBC's production of The Five Orange Pips. I thought it would be fun and interesting to explore the character and experiences of The Lone Star's ill fated Captain and crew as they face what Sherlock Holmes called a most ultimate justice._

_Also inspiration for this piece is drawn from Loreena McKennitt's awesome song Dante's Prayer, as I thought that some of the words from the chorus would be appropriate._

_I hope you enjoy the story and would welcome your feedback._

_I've also written another Sherlock Holmes story called Secret Soul based on the adventure of The Crooked Man which might interest you, as it explores the characters of Nancy, Henry Wood and a few others just for fun._

_Thanks for reading. _

This is the third voyage I have made to England, driven by fear for my life and the lives of my men. By now the route is familiar, and for much of the journey I remain cloistered in my cabin, puzzling over the mystery of the papers I had given into the keeping of a man I once counted a trusted friend. His records of our dealings would be meticulous, written with the same care with which he handled all of his business affairs. It was for this reason that recovering these documents was of vital importance, for if they fell into the hands of anyone connected with the authorities I and my men would face swift and harsh justice.

Word is brought to me by one of the sailors as I have requested, telling me that we have reached our destination. Reluctantly I disembark, knowing that I will not return to the sea until I have completed my task. I am grateful that the majority of the voyage has been uneventful, save for the anxious murmurings of my men that all may not go according to plan. Impatiently I silenced their objections, confident that we would be able to obtain the papers and leave England undetected.

My plan is simple, conceived as I stood at the wheel enjoying the splendor of a moonlit sea. Only three of my men will be needed, the strongest of my crew who will not hesitate when I give my orders, for they have often helped me in the past with similar affairs. As soon as we step ashore, I give my instructions, and we are on our way to seek our quarry.

For the hundredth time I wonder why our demands have not been met, for surely the nephew would know by now that the deaths of his uncle and father were not mere accidents. Even if he knows nothing of our history, and the meaning of our strange messages, he ought to have done what we wanted and given the papers to us at once. Puzzlement turns as before to cold fury and a determination to do what must be done, for if I do not than my life and the lives of my friends will be in great danger. It is these thoughts which urge me to drive my men even harder, and though I know that some our considering objecting I pay no heed to their complaints.

It does not take us long to discover the whereabouts of young Jonathan, and for the first time since we set sail for England I feel the stirrings of unease as I learn where he is headed. For his destination is the address of the famed Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his loyal friend Dr. Watson. One of my men takes careful note of his route, and accordingly I station them at convenient intervals along the young man's chosen course where an accident is most likely to occur.

The night I have chosen for our task is dark and stormy, one where the death of a gentlemen rushing to catch his train would easily be assumed to be accidental. I wait with the patience learned over many years at sea, until one of my crew brings me word that he has left Bakers Street and is on his way to Waterloo Station. As on countless other occasions I welcome the shadows of night, for they will offer me the concealment I need until the moment I am ready to act.

I do not even feel the driving rain and wind, for all my attention is focused on the road where I know the cab will pass by my hiding place. A church clock strikes nine, and fifteen minutes afterward I hear the sound of approaching hoof beats, and the clatter of wheels. The horse is a skittish creature, and though his master does everything he can think of to calm its fears, I know that his efforts will prove futile. Jonathan pays his fare, declaring that it is only a short walk to the station and he will proceed on foot.

In the end it is ridiculously easy. The boy suspects nothing as I hobble forward pretending to be injured, and request his assistance to the barge where I have supposedly found employment. I choose my moment carefully, waiting until we are halfway across the bridge, at a point where the river runs swift and deep. The look of terror in the youth's eyes as I drop my disguise is a welcome and familiar sight, and with great enjoyment I proceed to question him thoroughly about the papers which his uncle stole. In vain he protests his innocence and ignorance of the papers whereabouts, saying that his uncle burned them soon after our first letter arrived. I ignore his entreaties for mercy, knowing that the time for such useless appeals is long passed.

It is the work of a moment. One strong push, and a stifled cry for help cut off as the dark waters close over the thrashing body, and I know that the last person aware of my criminal dealings has been silenced forever.

I quickly make my escape, after making sure that the local authorities will find evidence to corroborate the theory of an accident. Swiftly I ride through the night, anxious to leave these shores as soon as possible and close this chapter in my life.

Within an hour my men and I are at the docks and boarding the vessel which has brought me safely through many a storm. As I give the orders to cast off, I cannot help feeling elated at the success of our plan. For now there are none left alive who know of the existence of those damning papers, with the possible exception of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his companion.

Even in America his name is spoken with respect, and many are the tales told of his accomplishments in taverns and at sea by young sailors. It is said that his ability to observe and deduce cannot be matched by any except his brother, and from the few accounts of his triumphs I have read I am inclined to agree with that assessment. Yet I flatter myself with the hope that few know of the secret sign of our organization, certainly those fools in law enforcement will never suspect that my men and I brought about the deaths of the Uncle and his kin. Indeed I find Holmes' opinion of the ponderous methods and deductions of his friends at Scotland Yard one of the most amusing parts of the good doctors' accounts.

I take my place at the wheel, glad to be at sea once more and confident that this voyage will be uneventful. Around me my men perform their tasks with the ease of long practice, and I relax knowing that I need not worry and am free to withdraw to my cabin if I so choose. Carver is a skilled sailor, and knows every inch of The Lone Star as well as I, and yet I cannot rest.

Something beyond all reason is warning me of coming disaster. That inexplicable sense of the moods which govern the sea which all born to a life on her possess is very much awake, urging me to seek a safe harbor and wait for calmer seas. At first I ignore these misgivings, telling myself that I am simply anxious that none should discover the truth of my night's work. I comfort myself with that rationalization as the first mate signals that I might retire for the evening if I so wish. Gladly I take his advice, knowing that he will wake me if any change occurs in the weather or wind of which I should be made aware.

I pass a restless night, the face of the youth I have slain haunts my dreams, giving me no rest until the dawn, when I rise to take up my post. My misgivings haven't diminished; on the contrary they are stronger than ever. I am right to fear, for halfway through the morning I sense a subtle change in the weather which indicates that a storm is on its way.

All day I remain alert, determined to endure this tempest as I have many others, and telling myself that my ship is sturdy and more than capable of surviving. A part of my mind wonders if perhaps this storm is the work of Providence, about to punish me for my transgressions. Impatiently I put such thoughts out of my mind, knowing that my uneasy night is the probable cause of such imaginings.

Still I remain vigilant, determined to see my men and I through whatever might come. The storm breaks soon after twilight, and it is unlike any tempest I have ever faced before. I use all the tricks I have learned over a lifetime spent on the sea, every skill I have ever been taught in a desperate effort to keep my ship afloat.

Over the ensuing hours of struggle and darkness I learn a hard lesson, one that I thought I had long ago mastered. I thought that I knew fear, when the possibility of discovery and exposure by the late Jonathan's uncle. But as I bark out frantic orders to my crew, I know that this is a fear born of the knowledge that death is very close, and the one that created the seas is about to pour out vengeance for the innocents I and my men have sent to meet Him before their time on earth was done. These terrors are born of a certainty rooted deep in the soul, of a sailor's love for the sea and an ability to judge her moods like other men do the caprices of a lover.

As I wage a losing battle against the ocean's wroth, I seemed to hear the cultured voice of the youth I had just killed, beseeching God for justice. All those who have died at the orders of our society seem to emerge from the darkness, accusing me and my crew of murder and demanding retribution.

And from the far reaches of my mind I recall the words of a poem set to music as dark and mysterious as the ocean's depths.

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea.

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

Futile words at such a time, for none will ever mourn my passing. Who penned them I cannot recall, and yet they strike me as appropriate for what will surely be my final moments alive. They consume what remains of rational thought as the Lone Star shatters broken by the fury of the dark mistress I had served and loved since childhood.

It is to her I commend my soul, as she draws me into her dark embrace, knowing that any hopes of mercy can only be offered to her, for my maker would condemn me to a fate too terrible to imagine. Yes, this way is far better, for there are none left to mourn our passing, and I know my men well enough to say that they would prefer a death at sea to the noose. This is the last coherent thought I have before darkness claims me, and the sea takes me as is her right. For all who sail her know that she will never relinquish her grasp upon those who strive to comprehend her secrets, and that she will take to her depths and claim as drowned corpse the guilty and innocent alike.


End file.
